


Play It Patient

by Barkour



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-23 02:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2530247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barkour/pseuds/Barkour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>10 short Iris/Barry fics, to fill the hiatus. Will cover a variety of settings, time frames, and ratings. Tenth up: It's a good thing Iris doesn't put much stock in dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grab Ahold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Streak strips for famed reporter Iris West. Off the record.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this story: future fic; established relationship.

“Can I come out now?” Barry called.

“Yes—wait!” 

Iris threw her hands up—not that he could see from the other room. She flicked off the overhead lights and there by the far door paused. The candles circled the room, tall ones that flickered. Long shadows stretched from them.

“Okay!” She tucked her skirt under her legs and plopped down on the couch. Arranging her self as luxuriously as possible—one leg curled onto the couch, her arms spread along the back—Iris settled. “You can come out now.”

The sigh announced his entrance. Flash stepped droopily through the doorway and stopped, holding his hands out in perhaps the world’s most lackluster ta-da.

Politely, Iris clapped.

He dropped his arms. “All right,” said Barry, “well...” He reached for a glove.

As he bent his head to it, Iris shot up and slapped her hands together. Barry startled.

“Oh!” said Iris. She smiled winningly with her fingers outstretched. “I—forgot to turn on the iPod.” She pointed with the one finger to it.

“No-o-o-o-o-o,” said Barry, “no way—no music! That makes this even more embarrassing!”

“Yes, music!” She folded her hands together as if in prayer and shook them at him. “Barry, ple-e-e-e-ease, I just want you to do this one thing for me.”

He crossed his arms over the lightning insignia and looked away; but she saw his eyes flicker, how he peeked.

“It’s humiliating!”

“Not if I’m the only one who sees it.” Iris rested her knuckles on her chin, pouted, and batted her eyes.

“I am absolutely,” Barry said, “categorically, not doing it.”

“You totally, absolutely are,” Iris said, “you triple pinky dinky swore that you’d do whatever I told you to, _and_ you crossed your heart, _and_ you sealed it with a kiss. So legally, you’re stuck.” 

Barry looked crossly at her. Sticking her lip out further still, Iris batted her eyes again. He wrinkled his nose. His shoulder dipped. 

“Fine,” Barry said, “but only because you made me swear.”

She made a V for Victory with her arms. “Yes! Ha! So hit the iPod, my fine sir.”

He could have done so in the span of a blink. Instead Barry slogged over to the iPod—set in the portable speakers—all the while crossing his eyes at her. He jabbed play.

Iris closed her eyes a moment and held her palms out. “‘Let me sit this a-a-a-ass on you,’” she sang, and Barry said, 

“Not Beyoncé!”

“You love Beyoncé!” she said, outraged.

“I’m not stripping to Beyoncé!”

“I’m not listening to Lady Gaga!” 

“Bad Romance is up-tempo,” Barry argued, “and it has a strong, regular beat—”

“You just want to rush through this—”

“Oh, come on,” said Barry, giggling, “you don’t want my love? Or my revenge? You and me could have—”

“I don’t want a _bad romance_ , Barry,” Iris countered. She gestured. “Go out and come back in and start the song over. Do it right, Barry!”

“I’m the Flash!” he yelled over his shoulder.

“They’ll hear you through the walls, Blur!” Iris yelled. “And don’t think I can’t hear you muttering! I have a degree, too, Barry! I have a _master’s_ degree!”

The air shivered. Light crackled faintly. The candles guttered and then steadied again, and the Flash was standing in front of her with his hips slanted and his shoulders canted and his face—what of it showed beneath his cowl—aggrieved. 

“I’m not the Blur,” he said, and perhaps if he weren’t Barry he would have given that a growl. “I’m the Flash, Miss West.”

Beyoncé began anew. Awkwardly Barry shuffled his feet. He rolled his eyes—swallowed—unzipped the long right glove where it joined the suit at the shoulder. Plainly he peeled the glove off. It left his arm bare and freckled and the little blond hairs on end with the static.

Iris pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and rolled her lips in to keep from laughing. As Beyoncé crooned to _watch it, baby_ , Flash dropped the second glove without ceremony.

Lowering her hand enough to speak, Iris said, “Now do a turn for me, baby.”

He made a face at her but he slowly turned around. All that fussiness made him stomp. Just enough to rock his hips. 

Her fingers curled. The knuckles were relaxed on her lips. Her ring warm. The suit was thick, padded. All the true contours of his body were dulled by the suit. As he came about to face her again, he lowered his arms. The ring on his finger flashed.

He reached for the cowl. Naked fingers under the seam. 

“Boots first,” Iris said softly.

Flash glanced at her. He blinked. The candlelight made his lashes glint. Then he smiled, with a slowness and a wholeness that pricked her chest. Barry’s face creased.

“This is all off the record,” he said. Halfway clever a line, for Barrt.

“Oh, of course,” said Iris. She drew her leg up so she might rest fully on the couch, with both her legs folded before her. “I always protect my sources.”

“So no telling my wife,” said the Flash.

“She already knows,” Iris assured him. “I hear she’s some really famous reporter.”

He agreed. “One of the best. Scratch that. Definitely the best. Top five reporters in the country, at least. She figured out the Flash’s identity.”

He bent to unzip his boots. The metal teeth rasped, a quiet, harsh thing nearly drowned by the speakers.

Iris rubbed her ring finger along her jaw. The ring shifted fractionally on her finger, rolling.

“She must have been real angry with you for keeping it a secret from her.”

“She was,” said Flash.

“But she forgave you.”

Flash smiled at his boots. “She did.” Straightening, he kicked the boots from his feet rather than slip them off. It was graceless and hardly sexy—but so like how he would kick off his converse sneakers as soon as he got home. As a boy in the seventh grade he had done it; as an out of state college student home for break he had done it; he did it now.

“I gotta make a confession,” said Beyoncé.

As he reached to his back to undo that zipper, he said, “You know—growing up I used to think I was unlucky. That bad things just happened. But I realized after a while that I was really lucky. Lucky for everything I had.”

That zipper groaned. 

“What did you have?” Iris asked him. To hear it from his mouth with his face half-masked.

“A dad who loved me,” said Barry. “Two dads who loved me. A mom who used to love me. This—impossible gift from the universe.” His eyes rose to her. “My best friend.”

Again he gripped the edge of the cowl.

“Wait,” said Iris.

Barry paused. Unfolding her legs, she stood. The room was flickering. So many shadows, such faint lights. She crossed the floor. Two steps. He let his hands fall.

Iris ran her fingertips very delicately along the cowl’s seam. Then she hooked the edge and pushed the cowl up his cheeks. His hair was mussed. His face so bony. He opened his eyes when the cowl was past them.

She stroked the side of his jaw. A thin layer of sweat dampened the skin by his ears.

“You’re my best friend,” he told her.

Iris passed her thumb across his ear. “I figured that out, too. I _am_ one of the top five reporters in the country.”

“Top three,” Barry said. “I forgot to factor in a couple of things with the earlier ranking. This one is much more accurate.”

She stood on her tiptoes. Her feet were bare. He wore socks yet. Her toes curled on top of his. Iris brushed her mouth across Barry’s mouth.

“Barry,” she said. “Take the rest of it off,” she asked him.

He took off the cowl, the suit, the flexible, shatter-resistant chest piece. The ring, he left in its place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song referenced is Beyoncé's Rocket. I nicked the title from that, too.


	2. Come Around Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's college, not the end of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this fic: pre-canon; unresolved romantic tension.

She lay there a half hour, curled on her side on top of the sheets in her summer PJs: halter top, boy shorts. The fan whisked but the air conditioning was still out. The early August heat settled. 

Curled on her side in the dark Iris watched the unmoving silhouette of the old tree out back, till the clock said sixteen past the hour. Then she rolled onto her back, thumped her head twice to the pillow, and looked at the fan. Three minutes of that. Iris sat upright and turned to the wall behind her bed.

She rapped the wall lightly. Shave and a haircut. Silence after that. The fan’s cord rattled; it wafted in the current. 

He was asleep. Of course. In five hours he’d sling his knapsack over his shoulder and stuff his feet into his scuffed converse sneakers and head off for the next great adventure. Her own college life wouldn’t start for another three weeks.

She lifted her fist to try again. Iris hesitated. Her wrist wavered. She lowered her hand. Twenty-two after, now. She’d set her alarm to wake her up in time to share a morning coffee with Dad and a last hug with Barry. So go to sleep.

She folded her hands around her knees and set her chin on her fingers. Silly.

Two quiet raps behind her; _two bits_. Her head rose. Iris rubbed at her eyes before she went to the window.

They’d made the code up after Barry moved in. Couple months after that. He slept in the guest room then Dad cleaned out Mom’s old craft room and bought a new bed to fit in there. Barry’s feet stuck off the end if he laid straight on it. He’d showed her a year ago and they’d both laughed till they hiccupped. Dad, walking by, put his head in and his eyebrows up and said, “Am I going to understand this one or is this another Iris and Barry special?”

Her friends hadn’t understood either.

Iris unlatched the window and hoisted the lower sash. Two feet over, Barry got his window open. It groaned and stopped short.

Arms folded on the sill, she leaned into the night. “Need help?”

“No,” Barry grumbled. “I got it.”

One last fervent rattle. Then he conceded. His head popped out, a few inches lower. He stuck his arms out, too, and they dangled from the sill at his elbows.

She smiled at him. He smiled, too.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she said. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“Nah.” He shrugged his elbows. “I couldn’t sleep. Lot of stuff to think about.”

“Yeah.” Iris pillowed her cheek on her arms. “A lot. Excited about the eighteen hour road trip?”

“Thrilled.”

“Did you remember to pack a book?”

He pulled his arms in to fold them like she’d folded hers. Fingers of his left hand flat upon the fingers of the right. Barry rested his cheek on top of his hands.

“‘A’ book?” His smile deepened. The bridge of his nose creased.

The tree’s broad shadow masked the sky. Heavy branches arched to meet the roof. Dad would have to trim it again. The leaves were still. No wind to stir them, or to cool. Her heart was over-warm in her throat.

“Four books.”

“Three,” he said. “Thank you.”

“My little nerd,” said Iris, “all grown-up and ready to explore new libraries.”

Barry laughed. Iris, smiling, tucked her chin to her neck and her lips to her arm. She glanced at the tree again. Somewhere in that darkness a firefly lit then faded then lit again, farther away. The remnant of their childhood rope swing hung motionless from its branch.

“I want to go for a walk,” Iris said. 

Cut short years ago to prevent it running through Barry’s window, the branch’s blunt end had sprouted six weedy fingers. Reaching out to it with his head forced low, Barry flicked a leaf at the tip of one such offshoot. It bobbed gently then stilled again.

“I’ll get my shoes,” he said.

Dad’s room was dark. No light under the door. Still, Iris walked on the edges of the stairs and Barry—with his longer legs—stepped over the Late Night Alarm steps. Not their first night at the rodeo. 

The night was brighter on the sidewalk. Iris eyed Barry. 

“How are you not dying in that?”

“I like hoodies,” he said mildly. 

Barefoot, Iris stepped off the sidewalk and onto the grass. She looked back over her shoulder at Barry. His long, thin face was shadowed, the light from the Figaro house at his back. Yellow halo around his shoulders and his jug ears. 

“Well, if you pass out,” she said, “I’m not dragging you back in.”

She moved on into the thicker shadows sticking to the house. Barry’s shoes rasped through the grass. He followed her, at his pace. 

The tree stood where it always had. The old grammy oak. Mom had called it that. 

The heavier boughs, bent over by the weight of their yearly, leafy harvest, made an umbrella beneath which the world was quieter and sweeter and, at night, darker. The grass thinned. Iris picked her way along the roots to avoid the few summer acorns and their pointed caps.

Barry ran his hand along the curtain of leaves and then bent and stepped beneath the umbrella.

“Welcome,” said Iris, mincing.

“Thank you,” said Barry, bowing.

She laughed then, and Barry sat with her on the root that buckled. He stretched his legs out. She stretched hers out, too. Her foot settled on his bare calf. They both studied her toes as she wriggled them.

Iris rubbed at her arm. “It’s going to be weird,” she said. “Not having you here.”

He nudged her. “It’s going to be weird not being here.”

In the dark, the fireflies went on and off and on and off. Without light, Iris reached to touch the tree’s trunk. Her fingers grazed the tattoo they gave it. A lopsided square antiprism: Barry’s joke. Her name inside it; his outside.

“But you’ll be back for Thanksgiving,” Iris said.

“Definitely.” Barry was looking at her. He drew his leg up—not the leg she’d claimed—set his foot flat on the dirt. “I’m not giving up Aunt Mary’s mashed potatoes.” 

“Aunt Mary’s mashed potatoes are inedible,” said Iris. With only her fingers she couldn’t tell which name was hers, which his. Her name inside. His name out.

“True. They’re not exactly…”

“Edible.”

“Digestible.” 

“Edible,” said Iris.

He nudged her again. “But they make for a pretty stellar adhesive.”

Iris turned to him. She braced her hands on the root. Her fingers brushed his. Her knuckles, his fingertips. Barry went on looking at her. They had masks under the tree. Shadows, to each face.

“You could still go to Central,” she said.

He shook his head. Iris tipped her head back, to look for the ragged foot of rope still knotted to that branch. Masked or unmasked, she couldn’t look at him. Not yet. 

“I’ll text,” he said. “E-mail. Call. Telegram.”

“Candygram,” said Iris.

“Singing telegram.”

“Singing candygram.”

“Carrier pigeons,” said Barry.

“Dork,” said Iris.

She knew why he’d picked the school he’d picked. Everyone did, even if they didn’t talk about it. His parents had gone there. They’d met there. Maybe Barry would meet someone there. She almost said it.

He was looking. Iris wouldn’t. Eighteen hours from Central City. Home again for Thanksgiving, Christmas, a week in spring, then summer. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Iris said.

“About what?” asked Barry. 

He tilted his head. She did look at him then. His nose, his cheek, his neck and throat, all vague and shadowed lines swallowed by the whole. His thumb shifted. He touched a knuckle in her finger, briefly. The hair on his calf tickled her toes.

Iris almost said it then. 

“Um,” she said, glancing away, “I’ve been thinking. Once I have my bachelor’s in… whatever I decide to major in. I want to apply to the police academy.”

He startled. Barry hunched over and peered at her. “The police academy?”

“So?” said Iris. She stuck her chin out. “News flash, Barry. Women can be police officers, too. Excuse me for thinking you weren’t a total Neanderthal.”

“It’s not that,” said Barry, “it’s—does Joe know?”

“Dad doesn’t get to decide what I do with my degree,” said Iris. “And no, he doesn’t know. And you can’t tell him, Barry Allen!” 

“I don’t like lying,” he said. “You know I can’t keep secrets. I hate secrets.”

“You’ve made me lie for you like forty times.” She stuffed her pinky finger at him. “Triple pinky dinky swear.”

“We’re driving eighteen hours straight tomorrow,” Barry complained. “How am I supposed to not tell him about this? Sleep the entire way?”

She poked his nose with her finger and Barry swatted at her hand. 

“Fine,” he said.

In the stillness of the hot night they made their pact: little fingers locked together, shaken once up and down, once side to side, and once pulling so that they bumped their chests to their clasped hands. His knobby shoulders framed her.

A different summer’s night, the night the swing broke. Two years ago. Dad had the night shift, and Iris had snuck beers out of the fridge. Thrilling teen rebellion with Barry in the backyard under the oak tree. She’d wedged her hips into the swing and commanded he push her and Barry had obeyed, pushing the swing as they faced each other. The world blurred. Fireflies, stars, and Barry laughing. 

She said, “Stop!” 

He caught the ropes. “What?”

Her beer, spilled in the grass, and his leaned against the buckled root. Quizzically he grinned down at her. Nose wrinkled. His smile hitched higher on the left than the right. His lower lip was slick.

“Iris?”

She tried to stand. Her hips were stuck. She clutched at his t-shirt, and he came down to her, and her breath was on his slick lip, and then the knot of the one rope gave and the other rope snapped, and Iris had broken her tailbone in the dirt.

Iris leaned out of the pact. Barry’s finger loosened. Her heart was thudding in her. She was sticky; too hot. Sweat under her breasts. Her toes curled against his calf. 

Eighteen hours, she thought. What are you going to change by doing this? Who else in the world would she tell she was thinking of applying to the academy? In five hours Barry would be on the road. Home again for Thanksgiving. 

She thought: What are you going to do if he doesn’t text? Because you changed it?

“Don’t tell Dad,” Iris said.

“I won’t,” Barry said. He waggled his little finger at her. “I swore.”

He lowered his hand. His fingers covered her fingers. She hadn’t kissed him then. She didn’t kiss him now. Just a silly middle school crush rearing its head again because Barry was leaving.

If she kissed him, Iris thought. If he wanted her to kiss him.

In the dark, they were both of them invisible.

After a long minute, Barry looked away. He said, “Hey—if you do go to the police academy—and if I get a job in forensics with my degree—maybe we could work together.”

Iris smiled at him. Her cheeks ached. Her eyes ached too. He couldn’t see any of that any more than she could see where he looked, but that it was away from her.

“That would be nice,” said Iris. “West and Allen, fighting crime. Partners to the end.”

“Yeah,” said Barry, “partners. You and me.”

He presented his arms, out-stretched. She took the offer. That was enough, to hug. She hid her face in his shoulder. His hoodie was a heavy one, made with thick fabric. A little damp wouldn’t touch him. 

“So I’ll see you for Thanksgiving,” she said to his shoulder.

He held her a while longer. Her grip tightened around him. She felt his head turning, his cheek resting on her shoulder as he looked not at the side of her head but to the tree and its secret names.

“I wouldn’t want to miss those potatoes,” he joked. “And anyway—Thanksgiving’ll be here sooner than you think.”

“Just one long blink,” she said.

“Now you see me,” Barry said, “now you don’t.”

Iris closed her eyes against his sleeve. 

“Now I see you,” she said.


	3. In the End, This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry is swallowed by the speed force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies to Mark Waid and Geoff Johns, whose writing pretty clearly inspired this.
> 
> Tags for this fic: future fic.

Then he was air; then he was light; then he was nothing. He ran, and in the running he gave his all.

You ask: are they safe? Yes.

You ask: is it over? Yes.

The force took him. He went readily.

She said: Barry.

What else? What more?

He was nothing. He was light. He was air.

She said: Barry, please.

He opened his eyes. The sky hid behind her. The sun too. She cupped his face in her warm hands.

She said, “Barry,” and bent her head. Her lips at his temple. The realness of her.

He said, “Iris.”


	4. Trick or Treat or Tiger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iris and Barry take the twins trick or treating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this story: future fic; kidfic. Halloween?

Flash dumped the dastardly duo at Superman’s feet. “That’s the last of them, gotta go!”

Sternly Superman said, “I’d stay put if I were you.”

Startled, Flash turned on his heel. “What? But I have to take my kids—”

“What?” said The Biggest of the ‘S’s. Then his eyes widened and he said: “Oh! No! Not you! I was talking to these ruffians.” He stamped on the man’s hand as he made to crawl away, and the guy yelped.

“Oh,” said Flash, “because I thought—”

“Just go!” That was _all_ Clark.

Flash saluted him—truly, the premier of heroes—and then cut across Lake Erie en route to Central. The water was choppy, but it beat traffic. 

The first few trick-or-treaters were already out, the youngest kids out with their parents while the sun was still up. That had been the plan for them, too. He blew through the front door and kicked it shut. 

“Daddy-slammed-the-door!” Don yelled from upstairs. 

“Pizza rolls are on the counter!” Iris yelled, located same.

Barry detoured to the kitchen and scarfed both trays’ worth of junk. His daughter was standing behind him when he turned from the sink. She had her hands on her hips and her brown nose wrinkled.

“You’re late,” said Dawn. 

“I was saving the world,” said Barry, “with Superman.”

Dawn threw her hands up. “I’m Superman!” She darted around the kitchen, fingers spread wide and her cape twisting wildly behind her. The whooshing noises were perhaps unnecessary when she was in fact whooshing, but Barry had learned that to a six year old, everything was necessary.

“You _are_ superman!” he said. He slapped his gloved hands to his face. “But—I left you in Metropolis—but you’re here—but I’m supposed to be the fastest man alive.”

She paused at the foot of the stairs. Dawn tipped her head to one side.

“Daddy,” she said, “I’m not Superman for _real_.”

“So my title’s safe?” he called after her. She’d moved on.

Iris and the thinker were in a meeting in the master bath—a serious meeting—all meetings were serious with the thinker—but the wrecking ball interrupted. 

“Go away! I’m not ready!”

“You’re so-o-o-o-o slo-o-o-o-ow,” Dawn groaned. She flopped onto the floor.

Barry stepped over her.

“Hi, honey,” he said, and he bent to kiss Iris on her cheek. 

She turned her head though, just quickly enough that he caught her mouth instead. Her lips were warm, but sticky, and he rubbed at his own. 

“Got a little there,” Iris said. She tapped her finger to the corner of his mouth. So Barry kissed her again, on the nose.

“Ha ha!” said Dawn, and she rolled onto her back to laugh louder.

“Make her go away,” Don said.

“Stuck with me, ha ha ha!” said Dawn.

“Stop picking on your brother,” said Iris. She twisted the lipstick in her fingers and wiggled her pinky at Don. He stilled, allowing her to draw on his cheek.

“What happened to Batman?” asked Barry.

Don frowned at Barry. “I hate Batman.”

“Don,” Iris said patiently, “if you keep moving, I’m going to have to keep starting over.” She reached for the baby wipe to clean the pink smear from his eyebrow.

“Let me,” said Barry. He reached for the lipstick. “What are you drawing?”

Wadding the wipe, she tossed it to the trash can. 

“I,” said Iris, “am doing our son’s make-up. Thank you.”

Barry held his hands in the cease fire position and shrugged. She crossed her eyes at him; he crossed his back.

“I’m a tiger,” Don said.

“He’s a pink tiger.”

“Like Mom,” said Don proudly.

“Like Mom,” Iris agreed.

“I thought you were ace reporter slash fairy princess, Iris West,” said Barry. He stepped back, crossed his arms, and considered her, seated on the step leading up to the whirlpool tub.

Iris, poised with the lipstick in one hand and Don’s chin in the other, glanced down at her lacy pink gown. The train from her pointed cap caught on the wire frame wings tied to her back. She looked at Barry again.

Straight-faced, Iris said, “Um, I am absolutely a cat. Mister Genius Crime Scene Analyst. Didn’t you see my whiskers?”

Don leaned forward. “You didn’t draw them yet,” he whispered.

“Cats are stupid!” Dawn said. “Dumb, dumb, stupid, dumb—”

“Dawn,” said Iris in warning. “Language.”

“Superman’s stupid!” and Iris yanked another wipe from the bin.

She shot upright. “Superman is not!”

“Sisters are stupid—”

“Don’t call your sister stupid,” said Barry.

“She is!” and Iris said, “Don’t yell at your father. And stop moving!”

“You’re stupid!” Dawn bellowed. “You are, _you_ are—”

“Okay,” Barry said, “I’m using my time-out card,” and he scooped up the Super-Dawn and carted her downstairs.

She kicked at him. Slung over his shoulder, she got him in the chest.

“Let me go. Lemme go!”

He flipped her from his shoulder: a studied toss that turned her all around before he set her on her feet. Usually she laughed. Now Dawn tried to run for the twins’ room. Barry held on to her arm and pulled the cowl back from his face.

“Tell me what’s up,” he said, crouching before her, “and I’ll let you go.”

Dawn scowled. “Nothing’s up.”

Barry loosened his grip. Once, twice, he rubbed her arm. 

“That’s not true. Lots of things are up.” He peeked up into her face. “The sky’s up.”

Her mouth fussed.

“The sun’s up,” he said. “But not all day. It’s going to have to come down eventually. And then it’ll be too late for us to go trick or treating.”

“Don’s fault we can’t go,” Dawn burst. “He said—we were gonna—we were supposed to do, to do, to-to—” The stuttering, again.

Barry rubbed both her arms. “Take it easy,” he said.

“And I said that—but—but, but, but—”

Dawn clapped her palms to her eyes. She was shaking her head. Let her calm on her own, the therapist had advised. The more you try to help her, the more frustrated she gets. Iris had a knack for talking Dawn down.

“Dawnie,” he said. “Dawnie. Hey, hey.” 

He pulled her to his shoulder, and Dawn settled there, her hands over her face, her head shaking side to side. Barry patted her back once-twice-thrice. The same hummingbird tap that put her to sleep when she was just a baby with a bad ear infection. She quieted. Her breathing steadied. Carefully, he untwisted her cape so it fell in a long sheet to her knees.

“Who said we couldn’t go?”

“Nobody,” said Dawn to her hands.

“Do you want to go?”

She nodded.

“Are you mad at Don because he changed his mind?”

She nodded again and said, “‘Cause he’s stupid.”

“Don’t say ‘stupid.’ Stupid’s a mean thing to call someone.”

“Meanie-beanie hot dog weenie,” she muttered.

Barry laughed and held her from his shoulder. “Flash quiz. Why’s it mean to call someone stupid?”

She wiggled her lips and looked away. “‘Cause it makes people feel bad. And ‘cause being smart’s not the only—‘cause it’s okay not to be smart. But Don said it, too.”

“Shh,” said Barry. He glanced at the ceiling. Dawn followed his gaze. “I can hear it. Mom’s telling Don the same thing right now.”

“You can’t hear it.”

“I can hear it,” he said. “I have super-hearing. The hairs in my ears vibrate a thousand times faster than the average person’s.”

“No, they don’t,” said Dawn. “That’s lying. That’s bad. I’m telling Mom.”

“All right,” said Barry, standing. “Well. I’m telling her you ate the pizza rolls.”

“That’s lying!” said Dawn.

“I wasn’t going to tell her.”

“Stop lying!” said Dawn. “You’re bad!”

Barry laughed again, and Dawn said crossly, “Stop laughing!”

“Get over here,” he said, “you little—snickerdoodle.” 

He rubbed his palm over her forehead and then kissed her head, through her thick and tightly curled hair. Dawn said, “You’re gross, Daddy,” but she wrapped her arms around his neck and held him there, his cheek to her brow.

He couldn’t say which of them had come first, Dawn or Don. They were born together. In the sterile examination room, the doctor had shown Iris and Barry the ultrasound, two fetuses with their bulbous heads bent together like the two arches of a cartoon heart.

“Oh, my God,” Iris had said, “twins?” and she’d looked at Barry and then said, “Oh, my God! Barry! Don’t pass out!”

He hadn’t passed out. He’d only rested his head on her shoulder and swallowed air. Twins. Iris’s neck was smooth, her bare shoulder warm. She smelled like jasmine that day. Every breath he swallowed was jasmine.

“What did you do to me?” she’d said.

“You told me to,” Barry protested.

“You didn’t complain!”

“Neither did you!” said Barry, lifting his head.

“Oh, my God, Barry,” Iris had said, “we’re having _twins_ ,” and he’d kissed her cheek, the left cheek, her right cheek, the bridge of her nose, the spot by her ear where she had a zit coming up.

“Take your time,” said the tech.

Barry lifted his head now from Dawn’s small face.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s okay if you don’t match.”

Dawn frowned. He touched the end of her nose, gently. They were in separate classes this year, he remembered. It had seemed the wise thing to suggest. 

“They tend to, ah, spur each other on,” Iris had told the principal.

“They’re really smart,” Barry hurried to add, “they’re great, they just don’t need the…”

“Very competitive.”

“The temptation.”

“ _So_ high energy,” said Iris, emphasizing with her hands. “But their teachers will love them. We do.”

“I’m sure you do,” said the principal. “Can I have your autograph, Miss West? Uh, Mrs Allen?”

“West-Allen,” said Iris, smiling. She accepted the pen. Barry had arched his eyebrows at her and Iris, her face turned down to the paper, batted her eyelashes at him.

“He was supposed to be Batman,” said Dawn. She grumbled it.

Barry considered the options. He’d time enough to do it. In the end he said,

“You know, Batman and Superman fight a lot.”

“They do?” Dawn blinked. “And Superman?”

“Constantly,” said Barry. “It’s really annoying. It gets old so fast. Faster than me.”

“No-o-o-o-o.”

“But they’re still friends,” Barry told her. He paused. “Sort of. I think. They’ve never tried to kill each other.”

She touched the lightning bolt on his chest. “You’d stop them.” Dawn smiled up at him. 

Barry cleared his throat. The lump stuck. 

“I’d try,” he said.

Dawn said, “You’d stop them,” and then she looked to the stairs and laughed loudly.

Iris preceded Don down the stairs. She’d her skirt hoisted so her plain black flats showed, and she’d Don by the hand. His brown face was neatly divided into pink and red stripes. 

“Oh, no,” said Barry, “what happened to Don? Did you eat him?”

The tiger bared his teeth and growled. Iris had fitted him with a headband.

“You got ears!” said Dawn. She stuck her hands up by her head and crooked her fingers.

Kindly, Iris drew Don before her then let him go. He took the last few steps on his own and stopped in front of Dawn. Her smile faded. She glanced at Barry.

“Sorry,” Don said.

Iris—this fairy princess with pink lipstick whiskers drawn on her cheeks—winked at Barry. The train was still tangled around her wings. 

“I’m sorry too,” said Dawn.

They smiled at each other. Don stuck his hand out. That was striped on the back too, though not so thickly. Dawn, uncaring, grabbed his hand. 

“You have lipstick on your nose,” Barry told Iris. “Don’t you have to go on the news later?”

“I already filmed the Halloween safety segment,” she said. “But you could clean it off for me.” She leaned forward.

He leaned backwards. “I’m not licking your nose.”

“Don’t be gross, Barry.” Iris slapped his arm. “You could just kiss it away.”

“With my mouth?”

She wriggled her shoulders archly. “Your mouth made it.”

“Oh,” said Barry. “Oh-ho-ho.” He wiggled his mouth at her and rounded his eyes. “You’re a married woman, Miss West-Allen. Is it really appropriate for you to be coming on to me? What would your poor, charming, good-looking, devastatingly lovestruck husband think of you running off with the Flash?”

“I just wanted you to kiss me,” Iris said. She scooped up the kids’ pails. “I wasn’t planning on leaving my husband.”

“Oh!” said Barry. “Oh, oh, oh! Come back here! Miss West-Allen! I have some investigative reporting of my own to do!”

“It’s too late,” she said, “I’m going out with lipstick on my nose. It’s too late!”

“Hurry up!” Dawn shouted at them. “You’re so slow!”

“Patience is a virtue, butthole,” Don said.

“Donald Joseph Allen!” said Barry. Don jumped.

“Where did you hear that?” Iris demanded.

“He heard it at school,” said Dawn, “but I didn’t, because I’m good.”

“Don’t call Dawn a butthole—”

“Don’t call anyone a butthole,” Iris corrected. She pulled the door shut behind them.

“I didn’t mean it,” Don said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Dawn said, swinging his hand as they stepped onto the sidewalk. “I’m a butthole.”

“Dawn Marie Allen—”

“I’m not Dawn.” She swept her cape and held it before her face. “I’m _Batman_.”

“This is your fault,” Iris said.

“My fault?” said Barry. He took one of the two pails from her. “They get their charming personalities from you.”

Iris looped her arm with Barry’s. Their hips bumped. She swung Dawn’s pail.

“And their fast mouths from you.”

“Oh- _ho_ ,” said Barry, “I’ll show you just how fast my mouth can go.”

Iris pressed her hand to her breast and fluttered her lashes. “But I’m a married woman.”

“Nice Flash costume, Barry,” said Greg, two doors down. “Where’d you get it?”

“Etsy,” said Iris.

“You wouldn’t believe how creative some of those people are,” said Barry.

“Hey, hon,” Greg shouted, “come check out Barry’s costume.”

“Wow, yeah,” said Enrique, leaning out the door, “it almost looks like the real thing.”

“Candy!” said Dawn, and she shivered her cape imperiously. Don showed his teeth.

“Sorry,” said Iris, “they know better—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” said Enrique as he dropped a handful into each pail, offered by Iris and Barry, “they’re kids. They’re supposed to have energy.”

“Totally natural,” Barry agreed. 

“Have a nice night,” Greg said.

Don roared at him. 

“Bye!” said Dawn.

“Can we do another time zone after this?” Don asked Barry as they moved on to the Johnsons’ house. 

“Please!” said Dawn, “oh, please, oh, please!”

Greg tucked his chin to Enrique’s shoulder. “Nice kids. You still want one?”

“I don’t know,” said Enrique. “Maybe just one.”

“Twins,” said Greg. He shrugged.

“Oh, come on, Barry,” Iris was saying, leaning into him. “I promise I’ll be good.”

“Okay,” he said, in the long-suffering tones of someone who wanted very badly to be talked into it, “just one more time zone,” and Dawn said, “Yeah! In a flash! Ha!” and Don said, “That’s not funny, Dawn,” and Dawn said, “Shut up, butthole.”

“They’re just a weird family,” said Greg.

“They’re nice.”

“Nice and weird,” said Greg. “Hey! A pirate! Would you look at that, hon!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About halfway through I realized I was sort of kind of repeating-ish a conflict in another trick-or-treat themed kidfic I wrote years ago. Then I was like: eh. It's a conflict near and dear to my heart. (Lot of kids in my family.)


	5. Look the Other Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iris would rather skip all the drama of prom. So she asks Barry to go with her, like friends do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this fic: pre-story; unresolved romantic tension; prom; romantic comedy.

Iris, yawning, thumped into the kitchen, bee-lined for the refrigerator, or perhaps, more accurately, bear-stumbled, and then stopped short with her hand on the door. 

“So the gravitational pull of the event horizon is so intense,” Barry said to Dad, “oh, hey, Iris—that even light can’t escape it. But none of this matter can just disappear; that violates, like—every fundamental law of physics, so it has to go somewhere. Are you okay?” His brow knitted.

“I’m fine,” Iris said. She squinted at Dad. The light in the kitchen was awful bright.

“See something you lost?” Dad asked, grinning. He had on the pink apron with the Valentine’s day hearts on the front: Sweet Looks 4 Sweet Cooks. The pan he tended to sizzled.

Iris turned her squint on the magnet calendar stuck to the freezer door. 

“Since when are you home on Saturdays?”

“Since they had to cut hours because somebody let bugs in,” said Dad. “They’re fumigating the whole precinct.”

Iris shuddered. “Big bugs?” 

Barry said, “What do you think he’s cooking?” and then he ducked, laughing, as Iris pitched the calendar magnet at his smart mouth. She got the wall instead.

“Settle down,” Dad said. “I’ve got riot gear upstairs. Don’t make me break it out. Barry, set the table. Iris—”

She paused, thumbs at the corners of her mouth, a finger in each nostril. Dad leveled the spatula at her. Over Dad’s shoulder, Barry had his thumbs in his ears and he was waggling his fingers at her. Iris lowered her hands and smiled.

“Drinks,” said Dad.

“Yes, sir,” Iris chirped.

Barry had crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out. Dad, following the true direction of her smile, turned and caught him.

“Barry,” said Dad.

“I’ll get the syrup,” said Barry, “and the other… stuff.”

Flapjacks: the Saturday special. Dad sat at the side of the table next to the window, and the morning light as it came around half-obscured his face. As she fought with Barry over who got the jam first, and whether Barry even liked jam, Dad worked on his napkin with a pen. 

The photo of Mom in her wedding dress—the pink one with frills—flowers sewn into her thick hair sat on the window sill behind his left shoulder. A little glare winked off Mom’s smile; she was facing Iris, like to say hello. Saturday mornings this was how they’d do it in the West house: Dad made flapjacks, and Mom made waffles, and Iris ate both. 

It was months since Dad’s last free Saturday, and that only because he’d the flu and the sergeant had expressly forbade him from stepping foot on the premises.

“He can’t arrest me,” Dad had rasped, betrayed. Then he’d slept nine hours on the couch, snoring like a bear. 

Barry had covered him with a blanket and put his shoes away. At five, Iris woke him to drink some soup. Chicken noodle. Mom’s famous home-made. Sweet treats from a sweet cook.

At last Barry surrendered and gave her the jam.

“Strawberry’s gross anyway,” he muttered.

“Then why did you want it, _Barry_?”

“The light was in my eyes,” Barry said. “I couldn’t see what kind it was. And you wouldn’t let me look at it, _Iris_.”

She faked picking her nose with her tongue and Barry poked her knee with his big toe. His own knee bumped the table. It skidded a half inch, and they both clutched at it in surprise. 

Wide-eyed, Iris stared at Barry. His lips compressed. Iris made a pfft sound. Barry said, “Sorry!” and then he whispered, “Don’t laugh!” at Iris. He was already reddening with the effort of not cracking up.

Dad marked the napkin then set the pen down. He reached for the syrup. 

“So,” he said. “Prom’s coming up.” He glanced meaningfully at Iris.

“In, like, two months,” Iris said. “That’s forever away.”

The redness had left Barry. He reached for his glass. The stain on the table that was in the shape of a squished rectangle (or, Barry argued, a squashed square) suddenly fascinated.

“Lots of kids your age already have dates lined up,” said Dad. “Dresses picked out. Plans. Plans they might need money for.”

Iris speared a triangle of pancake, dipped it in syrup then jam, and ate it precisely.

“Well,” she said, posing with her fork artfully drooped, “I don’t need money. I’ve got my dress on layaway, and I’m going to pay for it myself. You should really ask Barry if he needs anything.”

Barry’s head shot up. The glass was at his mouth. His cheeks were puffed.

“He’s taking me to prom,” Iris added.

Barry choked. Orange juice exploded from the glass, his mouth, and his nose. Coughing, and clutching at his face, Barry bent over. Iris had leapt up and across the table, she offered her napkin and two more from the rack.

“Barry! Geez! Breathe!”

“Thank you,” he rattled, and he pushed his chair back, set his napkin-covered face between his legs, and continued to cough.

Dad reached over to thump Barry’s back. “Does Barry know he’s taking you to prom?”

Iris brushed at her eyebrows. No wigs on Saturday mornings. In the afternoon, maybe, but not here, now, with only Barry, and Dad. She glanced at Barry, who was croaking, “I’m fine. Joe, I’m okay,” and struggling to draw even breaths. 

Her neck felt hot, just under the skin. He probably hadn’t even wanted to go to prom.

“Um,” Iris said. She lifted her chin and fixed on the red curve of Barry’s ear. “Will you go with me to prom, Barry?”

“I,” said Barry. He was still half-bent, with his hands at his chin and paper napkins crumpled against his jaw. His nose was wet, the skin beneath it too. 

Barry swallowed. He covered his face briefly: a final swipe, to clean it. He lowered his hands. His lashes were low; then he glanced at her. His eyes shifted slightly—but only a moment. Then he was looking at Iris again.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll—sure. Whatever you want. If you want to go to prom with me.” He closed his eyes. “I mean. Not that I mean that I don’t want to go to prom with you. Or that I don’t have other plans, or. I don’t have other plans.”

“Pick me up an hour early,” Iris said. “And don’t forget a corsage.”

Dad, his hand lingering at Barry’s shoulder, looked between the two of them. His jaw was soft. Quietly, he sighed out his nose.

“And you’re going together as…”

“Friends,” Iris finished. “If you ask me, prom is way over-blown. Everybody wants it to be this beautiful, perfect, romantic night. Like after you graduate you’re even going to see your date again except maybe at a reunion. So why should I dress up so I can slow dance with some guy whose name I won’t remember when I can just hang out with Barry instead?”

She smiled at him. The little crease to Barry’s face eased. After a moment, he smiled too.

Dad looked at them both again. 

“I see,” he said. He drew his hand from Barry’s shoulder. 

Barry cleared his throat. Clearing it a second time, he reached to sip at the orange juice. No explosions. 

Her chest had pinched. She wasn’t sure why. When Barry caught her looking, he smiled fleetly. The pinch tightened. She dropped her gaze to her plate. The pool of syrup had soaked into the pancakes.

Dad picked the pen back up.

“What are you working on?” Iris asked. She stabbed at a bloated piece of pancake with her fork.

“Keeping score,” he said. “Between you and Barry.” 

He wiggled the pen between his first two fingers. Then, without marking either column, Dad dropped the pen and folded the napkin in half so that all the tallies were hid.

*

She paid the dress off a week before prom. Standing in her bedroom, considering the dress in her mirror rather than the store’s, Iris found it even nicer now that the gown was hers, paid for with her money.

Barry asked to see it, at lunch the next day at school. He’d overheard her telling Janice.

“You’ll find out when we’re going to prom,” Iris told him.

“I have to coordinate with you,” Barry protested.

“You don’t have to coordinate with me,” Iris said. “It’s not a date-date!”

“So it’s okay if I wear polka dots and stripes?”

“Ugh,” said Iris, “we don’t have to coordinate, but you do have to dress like a person with eyes.”

“Just let me see what it looks like on the hanger.”

“It’s bad luck!”

Barry flushed. “That’s for weddings.”

“Well,” Iris said. She fiddled with the milk carton. “It’s bad luck for prom, too.”

None of Dad’s suits fit Barry. Dad had wide shoulders and a thick chest, and Barry was narrow and freakishly tall.

“I’m taking Barry by the Men’s Wearhouse,” Dad said. Shrugging into his jacket, he leaned against the door jamb. “Is your old man allowed to see the dress?”

“Is my old man going to blab about it to Barry?” She set her creative writing homework aside and hopped off the bed. 

“It seems a little strange to me that you don’t want him to see it.”

Iris rolled her eyes. “I just don’t want to make it all formal.” 

Carefully she eased the gown out of her closet to show Dad. For a long moment he looked at it. 

“You’re sure you want to go with Barry,” said Dad.

“Why wouldn’t I go with Barry?” She hung the dress on the rod and smoothed the skirt with her palm.

“Most girls your age go with boys they like.”

“Well, I don’t have any boys I like,” Iris said. The closet door clicked; she closed it gently. “Just Barry.”

“Mm,” said Dad. A crease ran between his eyes.

“Trust me, Dad,” Iris said, grinning, “I will have so much more fun with Barry than I would going _out_ -out.” She patted his arm as she passed him.

“Mm,” said Dad. 

“I put a lot of thought into this, and I realized I just don’t want any prom drama.” She plopped onto her bed.

“I know you put a lot of thought into it,” Dad said. He pointed his chin to the closet. “That dress proves it. I’m just not convinced you thought about everything.”

“It’s not like Barry’s going to sweep me off my feet.”

Dad raised his eyebrows. “Did you want him to?”

“Oh, my God, Dad!” Iris said.

“What if you swept him off his feet.”

“I’m not sweeping Barry off his feet,” Iris said, “ugh! Dad! We’re going as friends! You were there when I asked him! I said that!”

“Ah,” said Dad. “Right. You almost convinced me too.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not in love with Barry, Dad.”

“Of course not,” said Dad. He pushed off the door jamb. “I don’t want to have to move one of you to another house.”

Iris grabbed a toy tiger from her bed and threw it at the door. Nimbly Dad dodged. 

“You just want prom drama!” she shouted after him. “Drama hound!”

So Dad took Barry to try on and rent a tux. While they were out Iris modeled her gown for Janice.

“Oh, I like that,” Janice said. She’d taken over Iris’ bed, relegating the toy tiger and the rest of the menagerie to the floor. “Twirl.”

Iris curtsied and did a quick spin. The skirt was light, and it was pleated. When she turned on her heel, the skirt rose and rounded about her knees.

“So?” 

“So,” said Janice, “it’s perfect. Everything you wear is perfect. As soon as it’s on you, it’s perfect.”

“Does Amaya know you’re flirting with me?”

Janice fluttered her hand. “Oh, go on. Talking about flirting. I’m not going to prom with you.” She groaned. “And I still have to find something to match with Amaya’s dress, and her shoes, and her hair. You’re lucky you decided to just go with a friend.”

Before her mirror, Iris held the skirt up, her fingers pinching the fabric as she lifted it, as to curtsy, out from her legs. Her knees showed, too round, too much bone. Her boyfriend last fall had joked that she had door knockers for knee. It never hurt. They’d only gone on three dates. ‘Boyfriend’ was a stretch.

Iris let her skirt fall. “That’s why I asked him,” she said. She tried out a glamour smile on her reflection. The girl in the mirror dazzled. Knees so knobby, but what did that matter? Nothing much to Barry.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t ask me,” said Janice, “because I would have said yes, and then I’d be single.”

Iris pointed at Janice and said, “Things like that are why I don’t understand how you aren’t single.”

“She only wants me for my body,” said Janice sadly. “You want to play cards?”

Barry and Dad got home as Janice was collecting her winnings from the kitchen: three oatmeal cookies and a glass of milk. Iris was seeking her comfort in the cookie jar, too. The benefits of being the house. 

“Hey, Mr West,” said Janice. “Hey, scarecrow. Ooh, did you get a suit?”

“What did you get?” Iris asked, looking with interest from the cookie jar. 

Barry immediately angled his body to hide the bagged suit. “It’s bad luck,” he said, and he smiled as he made for the stairs. “You just have to wait for prom to find out.”

The lid in her right hand and her left hand in the jar, Iris looked to the ceiling, following his footsteps as he jogged to his room. The door closed up there.

“Bad luck?” said Janice. A laugh pulled at her mouth. She glanced at Iris to share it. “Isn’t that for brides?”

“So I’ve heard,” said Dad.

*

Prom tickets. No limousine: Dad lent them his car.

“Traveling in style,” said Barry. He popped his shoulders and flapped his hand in an approximation of that Saturday Night Fever move. Stayin’ alive.

“The 1970s were very stylish,” said Iris, and she wiggled her hips to whatever disco beat Barry imagined. 

Reservations—where else? The prestigious International House of Pancakes. No reservations required.

“Hurry up!” Barry yelled from the foyer. “Joe wants to take pictures before we go!”

“We’re taking pictures there!”

“Not on my camera,” said Dad.

Iris cinched the bodice higher on her breasts then patted her front, checking that her bosom was even, the dress likewise. She’d seen a model there before, a beautiful girl with dark eyes and a sweet mouth.

Now she saw Iris. Her stomach hurt. Why should it? 

“It’s only Barry,” she said to her reflection. Her eyes were huge in the mirror, her mouth knotted. Knees like door knockers. The dress she’d thought made her look like a fairy now seemed childish, like the puffed skirts on costume gowns for little girls.

Barry said: “Iris,” the first I a rise and the second a descent. 

Iris pressed her knees together. She lifted her chin. Softly she breathed out. She turned from her reflection. Her fingers were on her shoulders. She looked to her feet: toes bare and nails painted lightly pink to match her dress, to fit her stiletto heels. She was still breathing. It was only Barry. 

At the top of the stairs, Iris raised her eyes. At the bottom of the stairs, Barry raised his head. He had a pink bow tie on. A black suit: neatly pressed. His shoes were pink too. Her stomach was still wringing, but Iris smiled at his shoes.

She heard Barry breathe sharply through his nose. The hand at his neck, adjusting the bow, fell to the first button of his suit jacket. He swallowed. 

Her heart beat in her throat. It beat gently. She felt it, dream-like. Iris drew her fingers from her shoulders. Pinching the skirt between her thumb and first finger, she hoisted it to one side and curtsied. When she straightened, she was smiling again, and her stomach didn’t hurt.

Barry said, “You look—amazing.” The word got stuck in his teeth. The g was lost. He swallowed again. His ears matched her toe nails. He glanced at Dad.

Dad said simply, “You do. Now let me get a picture of you two together.”

She was glad she’d asked Barry. Iris thought this as Barry shuffled beside her and she side-stepped next to him. She wrapped her arm about his waist. He put his long arm over her bare, brown shoulders. The cloth of his suit jacket was thick. His bony fingers cupped her arm.

Dad peered into the view-finder. “Smile.”

Barry squeezed her shoulder. His thumb swept her skin. Her chest was hot, too hot for how light the bodice. She smiled for the camera. Barry’s palm was steady on her. The slight, cornered swell of his hip fitted her hand.

Two more pictures. A third. 

Barry whispered, “I wasn’t going to go to prom, you know.”

She looked up at him and said, “What—at all?”

He shrugged. One corner of his mouth tugged higher than the other. His eyes were lidded; he looked ruefully at her. 

“Who else was I going to go with?”

Iris smiled, bemused, at him. “Who wouldn’t want to go with you?”

The camera snapped. They both turned to Dad. Pleased, he considered the display box.

“Nice one,” he said, and he showed it to them. 

Iris and Barry crowded together to look at the shot. In the photo they were smiling at each other. Barry’s rue had gentled; her bemusement was fond. 

“That is nice,” said Iris. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Thank you,” said Dad. He kissed her forehead. To Barry, he gestured, and Barry willingly hugged him. “Drive safe. Bring him home early.”

“I will,” Iris called. Laughing, she glanced over her shoulder. 

Barry, at the stoop, had his hand on the door. He was stepping forward. There were three cement steps leading to the sidewalk path that cut across the yard and connected with the driveway. Barry, looking at Iris, stumbled on the top step, smashed his other foot on the second, and went sprawling off the third.

“Barry!” said Iris.

“What happened!” said Dad.

“Ow,” said Barry.

She dropped her clutch and skidded in the grass. Barry was prone, half on the path and half in the yard. He looked at his leg. Iris looked, too. His thigh faced her, but his shin faced the sky.

“Oh,” said Barry. His face went green. He wavered.

“Iris, start the car,” said Dad.

*

_Where are u?_ texted Janine.

 _Hospital_ , Iris texted. Then she closed her flip phone and leaned forward.

“Hey,” she said to Barry. “You okay?”

He blinked muzzily at her. “I’m fine,” he said. “You don’t have to hang up ‘cause of me.” 

She folded her arms on the hospital bed. Very calmly, Barry picked at the back of his hand. 

“Leave the IV alone.”

“It itches.”

“Leave it alone,” she said. She covered his hand. His fingertips brushed her hand; then he stilled. “How’s the morphine?”

Barry glanced at the ceiling. He thought. A smile spread slowly across his face. He nodded.

“Good.”

“Good,” said Iris. She squeezed his hand, mindful of the needle taped there. “You scared me.”

“Scared both of us,” said Dad. He was at the door, his shirt sleeves rolled up. He’d left his jacket with Barry’s in the other chair on the far side of the bed. “How you holding up, Barry?”

“Go-o-o-o-od,” said Barry. He nodded and kept going. 

Dad left the door to brush at Barry’s head—to stop the bobble-head business, too. 

“Only you could break your leg on the front lawn.”

“Are the knee x-rays out?” Iris asked, looking at Dad. 

Barry looked at her. He was smiling.

“Not yet,” said Dad. “I was coming to see if you wanted anything from the vending machine.”

“Diet coke,” said Barry, “and a Kit Kat bar. ‘Cause I got a break.” Barry covered his face with his free hand and giggled.

“The morphine’s enough for you,” said Dad. He patted Barry’s forehead then smoothed the hair from his eyes. Barry smiled sleepily at Joe.

“Thanks, Dad,” said Barry.

Iris held his hand. Dad cleared his throat. He petted Barry again. Again. 

“Just doing my job,” Dad said, roughly. Then he bent. Fleetingly, he kissed Barry’s forehead.

When Dad left, he closed the door. The sounds of the hospital cut off. They were alone again, Barry and Iris. His fingers flexed in her grip. He curled them; they eased. She drew a lopsided heart in the fine hairs of his wrist with her little finger.

“Sorry you have to miss prom because of me.”

His lashes were low over his eyes. He peered at her through them. Like a puppy.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“But I’m really sorry.” Barry waved vaguely at her. “And after you… did… the dress.”

There were grass stains on the skirt. Another stain on her left knee, a smudge she hadn’t yet wiped. 

“I’ll have it dry cleaned.” She sketched the first letter of her name on his wrist. “Can I tell you something?”

He’d closed his eyes. “Yeah.”

Iris covered her hand, covering his hand, with her other hand.

“I really did want to go to prom. Not just because everyone else was going.”

Blindly Barry felt for her hands. His fingers spidered; he flapped his palm on top of her top-most hand. A weird little sandwich stack, her hands on his, his on hers.

“You can go.”

Iris slipped her hand out from the sandwich. Delicately she flicked his nose. He squinted at her.

“I wanted to go with you,” she said.

Barry tipped his head. He slid from the pillow. “As a date?”

“As my friend,” she said. “Friend—date.”

“Janice is there,” he said, thinking. “And… Amaya. And Curtis. And…”

“Well,” said Iris, “how much fun do you think it’ll be without you?”

He screwed up his cheek. “Pretty fun? You like dancing.”

“I can dance here,” said Iris.

Barry smiled. “You can’t dance in a hospital.”

“Sure, I can,” Iris said. 

She took both her hands from him. As she stood and shook her stained pink skirt out, Barry struggled upright.

At the foot of the bed, Iris hesitated. She’d left her shoes beneath the chair. Her clutch was on the chair, her phone inside it. Barry—rumpled, very high, his white button-up shirt unbuttoned so his clavicle peeked out—was looking at her.

“There’s no music,” he pointed out.

“So?” 

“You need music to dance.”

Iris fidgeted. She didn’t, she supposed. She could just dance. Iris fluffed her skirt and checked her bodice. 

“Um,” she said. “What songs do you know?”

He was still looking at her. His eyes were mussed. It was the morphine was why he looked at her like that, as if he had to concentrate on her to remember where he was—his name—to stay grounded. Absently he scratched his clavicle.

“Uh,” Barry said. “Um. I guess…” He wiggled his lips and then said, “Well! You can tell by the way I use my walk, I’m a woman’s man, no time to talk.”

Iris clapped her hands to her mouth and laughed. 

“Music loud! And women warm—” He winked outrageously, and Iris said, “Barry!”

“Been kicked around since I was, uh…” He twirled his hand, as if to spin the rest of the line out of the air.

Iris took a deep breath. “Been kicked around since I was born,” she sang, and she demonstrated with her hands on her hips, her legs going high. “Now it’s all right. It’s okay—”

“You can look the other way!”

“We can try to understand the New York Times’ effect on man—”

Barry had closed his eyes; he bobbed his head out of sync with the remembered rhythm of the song. Gravely he sang, “Whether you’re a brother or whether you’re a mother, you’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.”

The floor was cold on her feet. Her toe nails, immaculate. She jutted her hip to the left and pointed to the ceiling, then the ground at an angle, and then she was laughing much too loudly to keep going. Barry was shaking the bed as he laughed too. 

“O-o-ow,” said Barry.

“Sorry,” said Iris.

“It’s okay,” said Barry. He lifted his hand with the IV drip taped to it. “I’m on drugs.”

Iris covered her eyes. “Oh, my God.”

“What? I liked it. You’re a good dancer,” said Barry. “You have nice knees.”

“I have ugly knees.”

“I like your knees,” said Barry.

She brushed at the grass stain on her knee. The room was quiet. Somewhere outside of it, a bell was ringing.

“Thanks for dancing with me,” Iris said.

“Thanks for taking me to hospital prom,” said Barry.

Tucking her skirt beneath her legs, she sat on the edge of the bed. If a nurse came in, she would have to move to the chair; but the clutch was there, and the other chair was Dad’s. Barry held his hand out to her. Iris took it.

“You will always be my first choice for hospital prom,” said Iris.

Barry smiled at her. His gaze was soft. He smiled like Mom did in the old wedding photo Dad kept on the window sill in the kitchen. She’d looked not at the camera but whoever took the picture of her in the pink dress in a garden, with flowers in her hair.

She thought Barry would say something. He opened his mouth as if he meant to. Then he sighed, and his eyes lowered, and he only held her hand. She cupped his hand between both her palms.

At last he said, “Hey—Iris. Can I tell you something?”

“Sure,” said Iris. She brushed her hand up his wrist.

A fine tremor ran through his arm. His jaw clicked. Barry looked away.

Iris rubbed his arm. He was warm. She saw his heart beat in his throat. He swallowed; the apple bobbed. 

“I can’t remember what it was,” he said.

“Well, when you do remember,” Iris said. “I’ll be right here.”

Barry clasped her wrist. She leaned to kiss his cheek. His breath lingered on her jaw. When she settled back, his eyes were closed. After a time, he slept. The hand at her wrist fell from her. Iris, cradling his hands, watched him sleeping. Then she stood and picked up her clutch. 

Janice had replied.

_Hospital??? U ok???_

_Everything fine,_ Iris texted back. _I’m Ok. With Barry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from Stayin' Alive by the Bee Gees; that's the song Iris and Barry sing in the hospital, too.


	6. Slow to Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pregnancy sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this fic: future fic; established relationship; food; pregnancy; cunnilingus. This particular fic is rated **EXPLICIT**. Explicit-ish. All right.

“This is your fault,” Iris—clad in her nightgown and full—said. 

Barry, pizza in hand and mouth, gaped at her. Her swollen feet were propped in his lap. His massaging hand stilled. 

Iris poked his gut with her big toe. “Keep going.”

He finished chewing, swallowed, and in the same instant said, “And how exactly is this my fault?”

“You’re the one with the implausibly fast metabolism,” said Iris. “So, your fault.”

“It takes two to tango.”

She poked him again. Barry’s hand blurred; he stroked her feet, his thumb digging into the arches. Sighing, she sank against the couch arm. Her eyelashes sank too. She was drifting sweetly.

“Two can play that game,” she said.

He thought. “A bun in the oven is worth two… also in the oven.” 

“Twins,” said Iris, eyes closed. She’d scarfed a large pizza on her own before the meat upset her. With her hands folded over her rounded belly, she breathed through her mouth. “I can’t believe you put _two_ babies inside me. Was one baby not enough for you?”

“That’s not even remotely how that works,” he protested mildly. 

They’d had this conversation before. His hand was warm, working on her feet. He ate another slice of pizza; she could smell the cheese. Iris faked gagging. Barry squeezed the toes of her left foot. The knuckles popped softly. She wriggled on the cushions.

“It _is_ weird that you’re still so sensitive to smells. Right? That’s weird.”

“The mommy blogs say it’s normal,” said Iris. 

“You’re still taking the supplements?”

“Yes, _Mom_ ,” said Iris, “I’m still taking my fancy, complementary STAR Labs congratulations-on-your-speedster-babies supplements. God, I am so _bored_ of eating, like, all the time. They’re going to come out already walking.”

“That probably won’t happen,” Barry said. “Developmentally that would be pretty shocking.”

He turned slightly on the couch, to cradle a foot in each hand. His fingers buzzed over her skin. Prodding at her feet, he flexed her arches against his locked thumbs. Iris grumbled and winked her toes at him.

Barry bent. He kissed her thickened ankles on their knobby insides. Through her eyelashes and over the swell of her belly, she watched him. His mouth was flat.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Caitlin said there’s nothing to worry about. They’re coming along fine. Completely normal. Just like any other baby.”

He set his cheek on her calf. His hair was ruffled. Damp, still, from his shower. He hadn’t burned the water off. Just let it sit. Gently she tickled his chest with her toes. 

They’d talked about it once or twice, when they decided to start trying. What the metabolism might mean for a child, if it could be inherited. The idea was vague, unreal. Barry aged like everyone else aged. 

Only when Caitlin had told them that Iris’ appetite _was_ abnormal, that she needed more nutrients than she could possibly take in on any diet, that most first time mothers didn’t show so prominently three months in, did it seem possible. But twins, of course: there was that, too. 

The third trimester loomed. She had nearly finished the sixth month. All the ultrasounds revealed perfectly unremarkable babies. Sometimes Iris woke in the small, dark hours of morning, certain her belly was empty and her children were dust.

Barry turned his head. He kissed her knee, his lips soft. His eyelids were low. He kissed the other knee as lightly. His humming hands stroked her calves. He cradled her shins. His mouth moved to brush her thighs. She hadn’t put underwear on after her shower. Too tired to deal with the struggle of sitting or bending over to pull them up, then standing all over again. Iris felt her nakedness acutely under her gown.

The touch of his fingers trembled in her skin, but he kissed her leisurely. Lips parting. His mouth warm and wet on her; enduring. His hands as he slid them to cup her rear were buzzing. The hem of her nightgown rumpled. He’d dragged it up her legs. 

She swept her fingers through his short, damp hair. Traces of water beaded her fingernails. Shifting, she spread her knees. 

“Whatever you’re so stressed about,” Iris said, “you don’t have to be.” 

She knew it. He knew what it was too. Before, they had discussed the possibility. Now, like an ill spirit, it sat unnamed. 

Barry pressed his mouth high on her left thigh, high on the right. Fumbling about her, Iris found no pillow. 

“Barry—”

He withdrew, a moment. The throw pillows were thin; they’d long tassels at the corners. Decorative pillows rather than useful. He offered three and she stacked them behind her, to support her back. Reaching around, he helped tug them into place.

Iris cupped his cheek. She leaned into him, and Barry—another moment—set his hands on the couch on either side of her and, on his knees to make room for her belly, he kissed her. Her heart shivered. 

“Okay,” she said. She murmured it to his lips. “You can keep going. If you want.”

He did. His palms settled on the underside of her thighs. Like he offered his hands up. He hoisted her legs; she let them rest, languid, on his shoulders. 

He could, if she asked it of him, give it to her like fast-running silver. Whatever you want. Iris brushed her hand over his head, a calm, long pet. So he gave what she asked. Hands, still. His fingers only faintly curled against her thighs. Barry licked her slowly, his tongue broad. He repeated this with deliberation.

Iris drew a long breath in through her nose. Her stomach roiled—the smell of dinner—then calmed. She set her hand on her belly. One of the twins stretched. A little pressure, at the small of her back. Then the baby, too, settled.

A baby, she thought. Two. 

Barry’s lips gentled. He rounded them on her nub, sucking and then pressing his tongue to it. Another lick, as slow as those before it. She was aching, a pleasant ache, comfortable and not needy. 

Twins. Their children. Barry’s kids; and hers. The baby moved again. Perhaps the twin. They were each the twin; neither preceded the other. Iris rubbed her belly. Let her know what she was doing. Let them both know. Let the babies be healthy, and happy, and theirs.

No rush to it. He took his time. She’d asked for that. Barry’s breath warmed her thigh. His tongue dipped. His hands shifted; he gripped her hip, and the other hand brushed along her waist. His fingertips brushed the bottom swell of her belly, through the thin cloth of her gown. Iris curled her toes.

He knew her body. She knew his. The little wriggle of his hips. He was bent, not comfortably, with his legs off the couch. No pressure, for the relieving.

“You can touch yourself,” Iris said. She flicked his ear. Her fingernail trailed around the edge.

Barry’s breath caught. The hand at her hip slid away. His zipper rasped; the jeans’ button popped. She couldn’t bear to look. Looking was too much, too sudden and too hot a thing. She heard it, though. Felt the vibration in his throat. The second catch. His tongue rolled.

His fingers spread along the low swell of her. Iris reached for her self. She knew her own body, too. Barry curled his tongue around her finger, pressed to her clit, and sucked at her knuckle.

She came at last, rather sweetly. A pinch like a cork; then it sprung free. Iris tipped her head back and groaned his name. Ba-a-a-a-arry. He came, too, his second, so soon after the first. Like always he was chanting her name, Iris-Iris-Iris, and he was saying, I-love-you-I-love-you-I-love-you, and Barry rose to kiss her frenetically through her nightgown, along her belly, her thicker breasts, her clavicle, the underside of her chin.

Iris said, “Barry—come here—” She clasped his ears. He went to her. His mouth tasted of her. It was all right. Everything was all right. He was with her. Barry slanted his mouth and cupped her lower lip between his. His breath, so warm. 

“How’s your back?”

“My back is wonderful,” said Iris. “I like your massages.”

She nipped the end of his nose. Barry was smiling, his forehead creased. 

“Do you need me to get you anything?”

Iris carded her fingers in his hair. She held his nape in her hands.

“God,” she said. She closed her eyes. “Ice cream. And pickles. I’m starving. What did you to do to me, Barry?”

He kissed her lingeringly. Their breath mingled. Pizza, she thought. God.

“Anything you want,” he said.


	7. Holidays Are Joyful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iris had to find out sooner or later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this fic: future fic; Christmas; emotional cheating?

The streets here on the lower west side were dark and they were empty. The shops were closed, their doors locked, their window displays black. 

Her breath fogged. The air, cold in her throat, dry in her mouth. Iris stalked along the sidewalk. Each click of her heels sounded sharply. 

Her bag thumped her leg, and grabbing the strap, she threw it around to her back. 

“Iris!”

Of course he’d caught up with her. Of course he would. He touched her arm.

Iris spun on her heel and shoved him. Palms smacked flat on his chest. He stumbled two uneven steps. She advanced. Her bag swung from her shoulder.

“Iris,” he said, “please, will you just listen to me?” He held his gloved hands out to her.

The lamps were lit. Christmas lights twinkled, strung between every light post. A week ago she had joked with the Flash that she’d wear green if he wore red. In the yellow-white light—distorted by the humidity in the air, that promise of snow—his suit gleamed.

“And what exactly is it you’re going to say? Huh?” She grappled with her bag, slinging it behind her again. She felt it slipping. “Is it ‘I’m sorry for lying to you, Iris’?”

“I am,” he said, “I am—please, Iris—”

She’d turned from him. “I’m not listening to you. I don’t know why I should listen to you!”

“Because it’s important! Because you’re right—you deserve to know—”

“That’s rich!” she yelled. “That is so rich, coming from you! I deserve to know. _Now_ I deserve to know, after I’ve figured it out!”

He was in front of her then, his hands on her arms. The mask obscured his face. His mouth, that was creased. 

“Iris,” he said.

She ripped from his hands. “Okay,” she said to Flash. Not once would she blink. Not once would she look away. “Okay. Fine. You get one shot at this. Go ahead. I’m listening. Take your time.”

He swallowed. His arms trembled: he’d made, abortively, to touch her. His hands fell.

“I promised Joe—”

“Oh, my God!” she burst. “You promised my _dad_ that you wouldn’t tell me? That’s your excuse?”

He ran his hands over his masked head. “He made me swear I wouldn’t tell you—”

“That’s why you told me to stop,” Iris said. Her chest was twisting. “That’s why the _Streak_ told me to back off? Did he tell you to do that too?”

“Yes—no—”

“This entire, ridiculous—did you think it was _funny_?”

All promises made to break. She did turn away from him. Iris ground the heels of her hands to her eyes. God, she thought, God—at that Christmas charity auction Captain Cold had interrupted—Flash had caught her as the balcony shattered beneath her. Miss West, he’d called her. And she’d—

Iris slid her hands down to cup her mouth. 

“All that ‘Miss West’ crap—”

“Iris,” he said.

“Miss _West_ ,” she shouted, whirling. 

Her hair settled. They stared at each other. His mouth opened. He closed it. His teeth clicked, faintly. The blood was beating in her ears. The toe of her high heels pinched her feet. Her arches ached.

Somewhere far off, carried to them by the bitter wind from an outdoor loudspeaker, Karen Carpenter was singing. _—always something new—_ Then the wind shifted its course, and they were alone. 

His shoulders were bowed. His eyes low, she thought. Head tipped so the line of his jaw was angled to her. The cowl covered his throat, his jaw, the knob of his chin.

The small of her back, that ached too. All she wanted was to go home and kick her shoes to the floor. To crack her toes and fall back on the couch onto Barry and say: You’ll never believe this.

“Take off the mask,” she said.

“Iris,” he said.

Gesturing with the one hand, held near to her thigh, she made a show of looking about them at the empty streets, the forgotten shops. 

“There’s no one else around, Barry. Just me.

“Take it off,” she said.

His throat worked. He closed his eyes. Then he was peeling the cowl from his brow, his jaw, tugging it to bare his face. His hair, sweaty, stuck at weird angles. A little crease lined his chin, where the cowl had pressed into his skin.

The material was loose at his nape then. His lips tightened. He glanced at her; then his gaze dropped. He’d pulled his shoulders in slightly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She swallowed around her dry tongue. Her lips were drier, nipped by winter. “Did you—you didn’t trust me?”

His head snapped up. “No—God, Iris, no. Not that. I trust you, with everything, Iris, I know that you would never—you would never tell. I know that.”

She raised her hands between them to stop his reaching. Her fingers curled. She nearly touched his shoulders. His chest rose; caught; fell. The lightning bolt showed between her hands. No light to illuminate. She blocked the lamp behind her from glinting off the yellow metal.

“So why didn’t you?”

“Joe—”

“Why didn’t _you_? Barry?” 

Her hands remained between them. She looked searchingly at his naked face, and he was Barry, and he wasn’t. The phantom taste of salt stuck in her mouth.

“We tell each other everything. We always have. I thought—nine _months_. You were dead, you kept—dying, and then you came back and you didn’t tell me?”

“You didn’t tell me about Eddie,” he said.

“What the _fuck_ does Eddie have to do with this?” Iris demanded. “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie.” His shoulders popped up; they dropped. “I just—I couldn’t tell you.”

“Not telling me _is_ lying.”

The wind and Karen: _wish I were with_ … 

Barry, his shoulders bent, his back hunched, his face drawn, looked at her. 

“I just… wanted you to be safe.”

The anger had dwindled. It settled to marshal strength. In its place the ache from her feet dominated.

“Safe from what?” she said.

Minutely he shook his head.

“Safe from what?” she said again. “Just tell me. Just—tell me the truth. Please.”

“What I’m doing,” he said. “What we’re doing. It isn’t safe. Some of the people we’re working against—they’re dangerous, and I don’t want you to get—we don’t want you to get hurt.”

She was shivering in the cold. Her coat was back at the office. In her fury—that chill and tranquil anger that had swollen inside her—she had forgotten it. Barry didn’t shiver. When had she last seen him truly dressed for winter? Before the accident. Before that.

“You were in a coma for nine months,” she said. “I saw you—die, and come back to life, just so you could die again and come back. I—”

The strings of Christmas lights swayed across the intersection, buffeted by the wind as it moved along its way. She grasped the strap of her bag. Her knuckles strained.

“I don’t need to be protected,” Iris said. “Not by you. Not by Dad. Not by—Eddie, or STAR Labs, or anyone.”

He looked at her, and his eyes were dark, his brow lined. She knew what grief looked like on him. She knew what it felt like in her.

“I’m sorry,” Barry said.

“You should have told me,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Her jaw was shaking. The cold, that was why. She pressed her lips together but she couldn’t stop her legs from trembling as she walked past him. He let her.

“I’ll get your coat,” Barry said.

“When I get to the corner,” Iris said, “I’m calling a cab.”

The air fluttered. An odd and muted pop, like a vacuum filled. He offered her the coat. The cowl was still loose at his neck. He hadn’t redressed.

Iris took her coat from his hand. Silently she shrugged into it. Slipping her hands under her hair, she tugged it free of the collar.

“Thank you,” said Iris, “Flash.” She stepped around him. 

“Good night,” he said, “Miss West.”

Nearing the next corner, she looked over her shoulder. Barry was pulling the mask over his eyes. The familiar angle of his brow vanished into the cowl. His jaw thickened as he tugged the material into place there too.

She thought of the charity auction. He’d caught her as she fell from the breaking ice, the frozen balcony.

“When are you going to give me that follow-up interview?” she asked, breathless.

He set her on her feet. He’d lingered only a few moments. So little time to spare, even with Captain Cold unconscious on the floor. The Flash smiled at her. 

“Whenever you’re free, Miss West.”

He was flirting, she’d thought. 

“Next week,” she said. “Christmas Eve.”

“Don’t you have plans?” 

“I do now,” Iris had said. She didn't lie. Eddie and Dad were both working Christmas Eve. What else was she to do?

It was the adrenaline. Naturally. She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. What did it mean? Nothing. Just a kiss, and on the cheek. She kissed Barry like that too.

The Flash’s breath had caught. She settled on her heels and rolled her lips. His skin tasted lightly of salt.

“You wear red,” she had said, “and I’ll wear green.”

Her breath was a pale mist, damp on her skin as she walked through it. The wind bit at her and she folded the coat over.

A small and knife-like pain ran up her right leg from her little toe. She walked through the pain. It wasn’t new to her. The thick skirt of her green dress rustled, and she listened to that rather than her beating heart or the clean click of her heels. 

At the corner she called for a taxi. Alone, Iris went home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet again I'm mining songs, haha. Here, it's the Carpenters with Merry Christmas, Darling.


	8. Food For Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If the streak had been there the night of the storm, maybe he could have saved Barry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this fic: episode coda (for 1x04: Going Rogue); secret identity; food; unresolved romantic tension.

“There’s just no plausible, scientific explanation for it,” Barry said.

“Him.” Iris pointed her fork at Barry. “For _him_.”

He rolled his eyes and took another two bites of his sandwich in quick succession.

“And I still don’t know how you can be so sure this imaginary streak—”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. That’s so gross. You’re spraying your nasty barf burger all over the table.”

Barry opened his mouth and showed her his tongue. She whacked him with a roll and he caught it easily in his elbow. Who woke up from a coma with better reflexes?

“It’s a sloppy joe.”

“I know what a sloppy joe is, Spider-Man,” said Iris. “That’s why I didn’t order it for lunch.”

He raised his eyebrows and dropped his eyes to her plate. 

“Chocolate cake’s not lunch.”

“Well, this is lunch, and I’m eating it. Don’t you dare!”

Unrepentant he scooped a glob of chocolate frosting off _her_ lunch and stuffed his fingers in his mouth. Barry sucked on his fingers and hummed. His cheeks tightened as he pulled on his fingers. Then they popped out from his teeth. His knuckles were slick.

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s dessert.” He smiled at her.

Iris kicked him under the table. “God—Barry, we’re in public.” Her chest was hot. She crossed her ankles under the table and furiously drove the fork into the cake.

“What did I do?”

“If you don’t know, I’m not telling you.”

“I deserve to know why I’m getting beat up.”

“I kicked you once.”

“Brutalized,” said Barry, “by the person I trust more than anyone else in this cruel and lonely world. Every day, I see the worst of humanity at work, but even when it seems like every person out there is terrible, I know that can’t be true, because of you. And you betrayed me.”

“I’m not sharing any more of my cake with you.”

“I bet it’d restore my shaken faith,” he said.

She found she was sucking on her fork while eyeing him. Iris set the fork on her plate. He hadn’t noticed. 

“Well,” she said, “maybe if you read my blog, you’d find more reasons to believe in the best in people. And since when have you been such a cynic?”

“Accidents,” he said, “can change a man.” And he smiled again. “In ways you don’t expect.”

“Don’t be cryptic,” she said, “that just makes me want to bug you until you give me a real answer. You’re not keeping anything from me, are you? Did something happen while you were—” In a coma. Gone. 

“Away,” she said.

Barry said, “Just my outlook changed. Like… I want to take the time to slow down. Pay attention to stuff I didn’t notice before.”

Her throat was dry. She took a long drag from her glass of water. He was still smiling at her. The sunlight filtered through the window and ran across his face in such a way that the immediacy of him was suddenly impossible to ignore. 

Her coat was on the empty chair beside her. His jacket was on the empty chair beside him. Nine months ago spring was near and she was putting her coat away and his coat, too, while he lay unresponsive in a bed at S.T.A.R. Labs. Twice a day a nurse moved his body, to prevent sores. 

She set her glass on its coaster. The cardboard was damp and distorted, wrinkled along the rounded edge.

“Like the streak.”

Barry turned his newfound attention to his sloppy joe.

“The streak isn’t real.”

“He _is_ real. There’s footage of him on-line, photos—”

“In the 1930s somebody took photos of a toy submarine with a wooden neck on it and said it was the Loch Ness Monster.”

“This is not the same thing,” said Iris. “This is…” She looked to the ceiling as she twiddled her fingers. “Demonstrably true.”

“But it’s not true,” Barry said, “because it isn’t possible. The limitations of the human body—”

“How do you know it isn’t possible?”

“Because it goes against the basic laws of physics.”

“And why are you so certain those are so set in stone? You always like to say that the driving force behind scientific discovery is keeping an open mind to anything, no matter how ridiculous.”

Barry wiped his fingers with a napkin. He did so carefully, each finger in its order.

“It isn’t possible for a human to move that fast.”

“It has to be possible, because he does. And he has to be human because I’ve seen the photos, and,” she said lightly, “he has a really cute butt.”

Barry stubbed his finger on his palm. “A really what _what_?” He stared at her.

“What?” said Iris. “I have eyes, Barry.”

“And a boyfriend,” he said flatly. 

Iris cut a long slice off the cake. “I didn’t say I wanted to touch his butt.”

“Your boyfriend’s butt?” asked Barry. “Or the imaginary, sentient lightning bolt’s butt? Does Eddie know you’re checking out the streak’s butt?”

“Checking his butt out and knowing he has a butt are very different things,” said Iris. “I know you have a butt. That doesn’t mean I’m checking you out.”

Now it was Barry who reached for a glass of water. 

“All I’m asking you is, just keep an open mind,” Iris said. 

She watched his throat work as he swallowed. He had a very long neck. Like a giraffe. She wondered fleetingly if Felicity had kissed him there. Felicity had looked at his neck an awful lot.

“I think what he’s doing,” Iris said. “The streak—it’s really important. He’s saving people from the things no one can save them from. That train derailment—do you have any idea how many people might have died? Would have died, if he hadn’t been there to help them?”

He was struggling to counter her. “They could have been—they were thrown from the train.”

“They were carried out of the train,” Iris said. “He carried them out of there. The streak. No one else could have done that, but he did it.”

Barry looked at her. His gaze flickered. He studied her face.

“Why is this so important to you?” he asked at last.

Iris was looking at him, too. She studied Barry, too. Had he lost weight? Was he tired? There were smudges under his eyes these days, and he only said he’d trouble sleeping.

“After nine months of it, I don’t know how I can sleep at all.” 

She’d said, “Don’t joke about that.” Her hand had come up. Her fingers, so near to his shoulder. She withdrew her touch before she gave it.

“It inspires people,” she said. “He should. Whatever he is—he’s choosing to help people with whatever he has. He’s choosing to do something brave and meaningful.”

“Is that why you’re running his fan club?”

“No,” said Iris, “I’m doing that for my grade point average,” and she grinned as Barry laughed.

“Well,” Barry said, “I bet if he knew you—he’d say the same things about you.”

Iris returned to her cake. “I don’t know why he would. I’m just writing a blog.”

“And studying to be a psychologist,” Barry said, “and you’re always looking out for other people. You’ve always looked out for me.”

She looked up from the plate. He’d folded his arms, leaned into them on the table. His smile, softened, tucked. Gently, under the table, he nudged at her with his foot.

“Someone has to,” she said. “Or else you wind up in a coma for nine months.” 

Her tongue curled, but Barry only smiled more brightly. He didn’t know. He hadn’t lived those nine months.

“I’ll try not to do it again.”

In her turn, Iris nudged at him with her foot. 

“You’d better.”

He nodded. Then he said, “For what it’s worth. If I had to pick between your or the streak, who still isn’t real, by the way. I’d pick you.”

He was like that. He had always been like that. I missed you, she thought. Her heart was pinched. The worst of it was holding his hand in that quiet room and listening to him breathe and wanting just for him to smile.

“You’re sweet,” she said. It was all she had.

“Not really,” said Barry, the liar. His eyes creased. “You need to stop eating cake for lunch.”


	9. Chasing Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry is gone, but Iris won't let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this one: drabble (100 words); future fic; speed force junk.
> 
> This is a drabble counterpart (emotionally) to the third story in this collection, itself a drabble.

Then the air stilled. Where Flash had stood in the street with Zoom: no one. Iris stepped from the curb.

Cisco said, “Iris—wait—we don’t know if Zoom—”

“Barry!” She was jogging. “Barry! _Barry!_ ”

Cisco was shouting, too: “Iris,” as she ran the dotted line.

Her skirt fluttered. The wind carried her.

Iris: she heard. A ghost ran beside her. A mirage.

She said, “Barry,” and she stretched out her hand. She reached for him. The after-image faded. 

“I’m right here,” she said.

Her fingers brushed his shoulder. Her ears popped. The asphalt buckled—

And Barry caught her.


	10. Some Kind of Jitters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a good thing Iris doesn't put much stock in dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S STILL NOVEMBER 6th SOMEWHERE!!!!!
> 
> Tags for this fic: speculation; dream sex. This one's explicit-ish, folks. Written in anticipation of 01x05: "Plastique."

The coffee bar rattled when he dropped her on it. A mug fell from the rack and broke on the linoleum. Her knees framed his hips. He gripped her knees, and his hands were gloved. She curled her toes lest she lose her shoes.

Breathless Iris said: “What about that interview?” A smart line.

His thumbs flexed. The man in the mask smiled, very slow, very sweet. 

“What did you want to know?” He said: “Miss West.” Lips pursing on the _w_ then drawing back to show his teeth on the rest.

She was wilder in dreams than she was in truth. In the dream, then, she uncurled her toes. The heels of her shoes drooped. Iris dripped her right arm over his left shoulder. Her left arm over his right shoulder. The suit was padded. Hard beneath her bending arms. 

The streak glanced at the wrist of her right hand—where her watch dangled—and then he looked through his eyelashes at her.

“Take off my shoes,” she said.

He slid his hands down her calves. First the left shoe then the right clattered to the floor. The gloved fingers were cool on her arches. He swept his left thumb beneath her toes.

“What next,” he said, “Miss West?”

(They had—in reality—three hours before—talked briefly over the cups of coffee she had rushed to make. 

I’ll only be here a moment, he said.

She said, Before you give me the lecture again—

I wasn’t going to lecture you, he said. Can anyone lecture you?

Many have tried.

How many actually succeeded?

Not a lot, said Iris. But maybe if you gave me an interview, I’ll pretend to listen.

Miss West, he said.

Iris, she said.)

“Miss West?”

She lifted her leg; it swept up the side of him. “My stockings,” Iris said. “Take those off, too.”

His hands slipped up her loose and pleated skirt. He was a gentleman about it. Fingers light. He touched nowhere she had not told him he could touch.

(Two questions.

Two?

That’s all I can give you.

She smiled at him and offered the mug. You could give me three.

He cradled the mug. The second and third fingers of the right hand through the grip, the first finger at the lip. 

Do you always try to make bargains with strange men?

Are you a strange man?

No, he said. His fingertip stroked the curve. Think of me as a friend.)

In the late fall Jitters was cool in the evenings, after hours. Her bared legs pricked. He smoothed his hands along her calves, up to her knees.

Her fingers twisted together at his nape. Like this, she drew him nearer. He came readily to her, the lean expanse of his chest warm between her chilled knees. 

At her cheek his lips rounded: Miss _West_.

(So: her first question.

Why do you do it?

He’d looked startled, or as startled as anyone could look with half their face masked. Well—I mean—it’s your responsibility, isn’t it, to help people if they need help and you’re there?

So, if I said… Iris twisted her wrist in the air. I need help washing all these dishes or I’ll be up until three finishing my paper—

The wind whipped her hair, and she threw her arms before her face in reflex. 

She heard the smile in his voice. How could she know he smiled from the quality of his voice? 

Done, said the streak. He tossed her a well-wrung sponge. You should really try to get a full eight hours of sleep every night, Miss West.)

“Do it slow,” she said, “please.”

He hooked his thumbs in her underwear and worked it from her thighs, to her knees, to her calves. That, too, fell to the floor.

(Is there anyone else like you? Or is it just you?

Every person’s unique, he said, in their own special way.

I’m pretty sure most people can’t wash all those dishes in two seconds.

And most people, said the streak, can’t make coffee half as delicious as this.

Iris laughed. You haven’t even tasted it yet.

Oh, he said.)

“What do you want me to do for you?”

She stroked the corner of his naked mouth with her thumb. Here the man who’d saved each passenger on the derailed train.

“What do you want?” asked this brave Iris.

He said, “Miss West.”

(Second question, she said.

Fourth, he said.

Rhetorical questions don’t count.

They’re still questions. Strictly speaking—

I hate strict men.

There goes my good press.

How’s the coffee?

He smiled over the mug. His lips were pink against the white rim. 

Good. The best coffee I’ve ever had. Was that your second question?)

The bar rattled again. He rucked her skirt to her hips; she hooked her legs at his back; he pushed into her. He did it more slowly than she would have thought. Iris dropped her head to his shoulder. She groaned: he filled her in tiny, widening increments. 

The streak nuzzled her cheek. His mouth was warm, his breath warmer. 

“Is this what you want, Miss West?”

She said, “Yes—yes—” and her toes tightened and she gasped—she dragged at the air—as he settled between her legs.

He kissed her jaw so delicately. 

“What do you want me to do now?”

Iris said, “I want—I want you to move.”

(That was not my second question.

It was a question, though, he said. Of the not rhetorical variety.

You’re trying to cheat.

The streak pressed his hand to his breast nobly. I never use my powers to cheat. Except maybe if I’m late to work.

You have a job?

Well, he said with his hand still at his chest, it’s not like heroics pays my bills. And I don’t cheat on those.)

“Faster,” she said, “faster.” She said—this Iris, who said things like this—she said, “Will you please just fuck me?”

“Whatever you want, Miss West,” he said. His hands were so tight on her hips. He hauled her forward on the bar and shoved into her. “Anything you want. You just have to ask.”

Her head fell back. Her throat worked. “So _fuck_ me,” she said, from deep in her chest. 

So he fucked her. The bar jittered beneath Iris; it vibrated as he stroked into her, sliding thickly into her so Iris clawed at his padded collar and then, a moment, nearly gone. Then he filled her, and she said: “Faster.”

(What’s the second question?)

“Say my name,” she said as he pulled her to him. “Please—just say my name once—”

“Miss West,” he said.

“My name—”

“Miss West.”

She dug her nails into his hair. Cropped, brown. Her hips jerked, but her rhythm was so slow before his; she was so very, so wildly out of control. 

“Miss West,” he murmured. He rubbed his bare nose along her neck.

Iris stared at the mirror behind the bar. She was panting; she was struggling; she was coming very near to a precipice. His head was bent to her throat. She saw the wide shape of his ears. Her fingers cupped his nape. 

She said, “My name. Say my name.”

(Iris said, Why did you start saving people now?

The streak set the mug on the bar. He said, I—was out of town for a while.

No one, anywhere in the world, does what you do. So where are you from? 

I can’t tell you that, said the streak; and he glanced at her and then away. I’ll wash these mugs for you before I go, Miss West. You need to finish that paper. Remember?)

“Iris,” he said. “Iris. Iris.” 

The absolute _fullness_ of her—and he fucked her still, he did not stop, she wanted more of him and so he drove onwards, pushing and ebbing and grinding into her till Iris said—

(Wait!

I have to go, he said. He was apologetic, his eyes cast down. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have talked—I was supposed to tell you that you should let this go.

Supposed to tell me? She followed him around the bar. Did someone else tell you that you had to tell me to stop?

You _should_ stop.

He turned suddenly, and she lurched back on her heels that she didn’t run into him. His hand fluttered—his fingers were steadying on her hip—then he was on the outside of the bar.

I want an interview, Iris said. A real interview. Will you give me that? Just one, real interview? And then I won’t bug you again.

I think you would, he said.

Please, she said.

He hesitated. His lips parted—then compressed. 

All right, he said, Miss West.

You could call me Iris, she said. Everybody else does. My friends do.

I’m a strange man, he said, remember?)

“Oh, God,” she said, and somewhere far away a bomb was counting down, “oh, God—”

He was pressing soft kisses all along her throat, kisses so gentle as she dug her nails into his scalp and fucked up to take him in, to take all of him in. Her body was seizing. The bomb beeped. His hands petted her hips; then he cupped her ass in his long fingers to tip her and drive so, so deeply, and Iris said—it tore from her—she moaned it:

“Oh, God, _Barry_ —”

\--and then Iris was awake. Her heart pounded. She was slick with sweat; slick, too, high between her thighs, and her skin felt as though drawn too tightly.

Her phone alarm trilled. Iris slapped at the bedside table till she found her phone and tapped to dismiss the alarm. 6:32 A.M. She pressed the back of her hand to her eyes and breathed evenly till her pulse calmed some.

It didn’t mean anything, she thought. She’d had weird dreams before. Dreams, even, of Barry, once or twice. She had stayed awake too late finishing the blog post. Maybe her last kiss with Eddie had left her a little steamed up. Chaste, she’d thought, but maybe that just meant she was ready for more. That was all it meant. Dreams were dreams. Loads of people had dreams about tall guys in leather suits. 

“It’s tri-polymer fabric designed to stand up against extreme friction,” the streak had told her, “which is handy, given—well—me.” He gestured smugly to his chest then down.

“Oh, my gosh,” Iris had said, “are you a nerd? Oh, my gosh! That’s so cute!”

Now, coiled in her sheets and smelling of sweat, Iris rubbed at her face. The phone was cool against her cheek. She pressed her thighs together. An echo of wanting clenched in her then it eased. Already the details of the dream were fading.

Iris stilled. 

“Oh, shoot!” she said.

She hadn’t finished that paper.

**Author's Note:**

> Alas, I've decided to end this experiment a few days early. I'm tired, mostly, from work and other things, but I also very much want to write a couple longer stories. Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to read these silly things! :)


End file.
